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Full text of "To The Lighthouse"

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off the Brompton Road).    She opened bedroom
windows.   She shut doors.   (So she tried to start
the tune of Mrs. Ramsay in her head.)   Arriving
late at night,  with a light  tap   on  one's bed-
room door, wrapped in an old fur coat (for the
setting of her beauty was  always  that—hasty,
but apt),  she  would  enact   again   whatever  it
might be—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella;
Mr,   Carmichael   snuffling   and   sniffing;   Mr.
Bankes saying, " the vegetable  salts are lost".
All this she would adroitly shape; even malici-
ously twist;   and, moving over to the window,
in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, she
could see the sun rising,—half turn back, more
intimately, but still always laughing, insist that
she  must, Minta must,   they all  must  marry,
since in the whole world, whatever laurels might
be tossed to her (but Mrs. Ramsay cared not a
fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her
(probably Mrs. Ramsay had had her share of
those), and here she saddened,  darkened,  and
came back to her chair, there could be no dis-
puting this:   an unmarried woman (she lightly
took her hand for a moment),   an   unmarried
woman   has   missed   the   best   of   life.     The
house seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs.
Ramsay listening; of shaded lights and regular